


When Other People Are Going Out

by RobinLorin



Series: Boyfriend From Gascony [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 06:23:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1847698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AO3 user Sigmund prompted me with the idea that d'Artagnan gets upset because he feels he isn't being taken seriously by his coworkers. As per usual, my interpretation of this got a little long and a lot fluffy. It takes place a few years later than the last installment; d'Artagnan has since become a police officer, moved to Paris, moved in with Athos, and joined the Musketeers Agency. </p><p>The following is a story of murder, affection, and orange juice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Other People Are Going Out

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for brief descriptions of a dead body with a broken neck, and frequent descriptions of a fever/cold.

Captain Treville looked even more tired than usual.

“The media’s all over this case, and we haven’t had a solid lead in weeks,” he said. He leaned on his desk and handed a thick file folder to Porthos, who flipped it open. “This one would be entirely up-front: equal accreditation, media placement, and the usual fee.”

Porthos made a face as he turned a page in the file. “Eugh.”

“What is it?” Aramis asked. He took the folder from Porthos and whistled when he saw the contents. “The Brace Case.”

The media had gone wild over the discovery of a body bobbing upside-down in the Seine. By the time the fire department had gotten to the scene, a dozen phones had their cameras trained toward the sight. They had all perfectly captured the body being lifted out of the water onto a stretcher -- and they all showed the victim’s head staying in the water; attached but independent of the rest of the body. His neck had been broken in a way that kept the head dangling off the stretcher.

Unfortunately for the police department, the homemade videos had also captured the nearly comically inept  attempts of the emergency workers to corral the floating head and keep it from dropping back down into the water and taking the body with it. The news channels had had a field day with repeated clips of one worker finally placing a neck brace around the victim’s neck.

Treville looked pained. “I’d rather not use that name for the case. No matter what my detectives are calling it.”

“Right.” Aramis flicked a sloppy salute and handed the folder to Athos.

Athos raised an eyebrow. “Who was working on the case?” He skimmed the attached pages and handed the file to d’Artagnan.

Treville rubbed his forehead and sighed. “Detective Speer. The media attention had a negative effect on him.”

D’Artagnan closed the folder with a snap and glanced at the others. He turned to Treville. “We’ll solve this case, sir.”  

His earnest air was broken when he sneezed onto Treville’s desk.

Athos nudged him and whispered something. D’Artagnan scowled. “I’m not _sick_ ,” he muttered back.

Aramis spoke up. “We’ll take it, like he said.”

“He said you’d solve it,” Treville corrected.

“Same thing, right?” said Porthos, grinning.

Half an hour later, the smile had dropped off of Porthos’ face.

“How can a casebook be so damn empty?” he growled. “What was this detective Speer doing all this time?” He stood up from his seat at the round table that filled most of the back room of the agency and served as the communal case board.

“Sitting with his thumb up his arse, I expect,” said Aramis. He leaned back in his chair. “He’s written which witnesses he interviewed, but he didn’t record details.”

“So,” said d’Artagnan, “we have a weeks-old case with a brand-new case file.”

“Sounds about right,” said Aramis. “Now, who was the one who signed us up for this again?” He reached over and pounded d’Artagnan on the back in fake geniality. D’Artagnan coughed.

When he recovered, he gave Aramis a dirty look. “LIke you weren’t going to snatch this case up. It’s got everything you like. Media attention and money.”

Aramis put a hand to his chest. “Frankly, I’m offended. I like other things, you know.”

“Yeah,” said Porthos. “Getting laid.”

Athos, who was skilled at ignoring Aramis and Porthos’ side conversations, pushed the autopsy report into the center of the table. “The medical examiner has made some interesting notes.” He pointed. “Here: ‘break not consistent with fall into water.’”

Porthos turned away, closing his eyes. “I can’t stand to look at that neck,” he said.

D’Artagnan frowned at the pictures. “This looks familiar. I just can’t place it…” His face screwed up and he sneezed explosively into the crook of his elbow.

“Bless you,” said Athos. He offered d’Artagnan a tissue. D’Artagnan honked into it. Athos continued, “What were you saying about the neck?”

“It looks familiar,” said d’Artagnan, still sniffling. “The way the neck was angled when they laid him out, it reminds me of something.”

“Yeah, the _Exorcist_ ,” said Porthos. He looked queasy.

“I thought you liked that film,” said Aramis, flipping through the report.

“ _You_ liked it,” Porthos corrected. “You made me see the special showing in the theater and I had to leave halfway through.”

“Oh yeah. I ate all your gummy worms.”

Athos interrupted. “We should take another look at the victim’s neighbor.” He laid a typed page on the table. “Maria Guerre. Her statement says that she met the victim when he moved in, but her flight records indicate that she was in Austria in August of 2009, 2011, and 2013.”

“The same years the victim was there,” said Porthos. He snatched up the page. “She was in Graz, too. Same place as the vic.” Aramis hooked his chin over Porthos’ shoulder to read it as well.

D’Artagnan looked at Athos. “Same timeline, same cities. Probably not a coincidence.” He smothered a cough.

“The records also say she flew out to Graz last Tuesday, damn the police,” said Aramis in one breath. “Can’t even pin down a witness until the case is closed.”

“Due back tomorrow,” Porthos pointed out.

“Do you think she’ll actually come back?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Let’s find out,” said Athos. He stood. “I propose we split up. Porthos?” He tilted his head in silent communication, and Porthos nodded.

“I’ll stay here,” Porthos agreed. “We’ll tackle the Graz police, yeah?”

“Right,” said Athos. He disappeared into the back room to find the name of their local contact.

“And I’ll take the newbie,” said Aramis, slinging on his jacket.

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “It’s been nearly a year since I started working here. How long is this ‘newbie’ stuff going to last?”

“As long as it’s still funny,” said Porthos. He shared a grin with Aramis.

Athos emerged from the back room with a file folder and a bottle of orange juice. “Drink this,” he said firmly, pressing the bottle into d’Artagnan’s hand.

“I’m not sick,” d’Artagnan protested.

“And if you drink that today, you won’t be sick tomorrow either,” said Athos. He twitched his eyebrow at d’Artagnan, who frowned back. Athos used stare no. 5, which was usually effective. D’Artagnan relented.

“Fine,” he sighed, uncapping the bottle. “See? I’m drinking it.” He took a gulp and choked. He screwed up his face and swallowed. “This is pulpy. You know I don’t like pulp.”

“It’s good for you,” said Athos, unrelenting.

Aramis clapped a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Don’t try to argue with him; he’s a mother hen. Come on, I’m driving.”

“I’m telling you, d’Artagnans have very hardy constitutions,” said d’Artagnan. He tried to put the juice on the table. Porthos tutted at him and handed it back.

“You better listen to ‘im,” said Porthos. “He’ll nag you until he gets his way.”

D’Artagnan sighed. “True.”

Athos caught his arm as he turned to leave and tugged him close. He pressed a kiss to d’Artagnan’s forehead. “Stay safe,” he murmured.

D’Artagnan smiled. “I will.” He kissed Athos on the cheek and untangled himself. He followed Aramis out the door.

Athos turned to Porthos and narrowed his eyes until Porthos stopped grinning.

“What?” said Porthos. “You two are adorable.”

Athos shook his head. “Let’s go bother Austria.” He sat at the table and settled in for a long chain of telephone calls.

 

* * * * *

 

The office was quiet except for the hum of the fridge in the mini-kitchen and the slide of Athos’ Sharpie over plastic. Porthos muffled a bored groan and waited for the Austrian police officer on the phone to stop talking about his sprained knee.

“Yeah, I’m sure that ferret thief was a real tough criminal, too,” he said. “Look, this is fascinatin’, and thanks for your help, but I’ve got to go. Thanks. Okay, thanks again. Bye.”

He hung up the phone and slumped in his seat.

“Making new friends?” said Athos without looking up. He was circling on a map of Paris the places the victim had been seen on his last day alive.

Porthos sighed expressively and shook out the crick in his neck. He glanced at the clock.  “Oi, it’s almost four,” he said.

Athos looked up. “Shit,” he said succinctly.

“You go,” said Porthos. “I can call the Davieses.”

Athos grabbed his keys. “Remember to ask about the timing --”

“I know, I know,” said Porthos, waving him off.

Athos returned the wave and hurried out the door to his car. He roared down the street, just making all the stoplights all the way, and made it to his therapist’s office with one minute to spare.

“Here for my four o’clock,” he said to the receptionist, panting only slightly. He straightened his jacket and tried to look presentable. God knows, Jessica saw him disheveled and distraught quite often enough; no need for her secretary to join in.

The receptionist gave him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Athos, but Doctor Pope’s last patient is running over. There are magazines on the table, or if you like, there’s a smoking patio on the other side of the building. I can call you when she’s ready.”

Athos had given up smoking years ago, but he nodded his thanks.

“Patio” was a kind name for the sad slab of concrete behind the building. Weeds poked up through the concrete, and cigarette butts littered the sandy earth around the edges. Athos gingerly toed away an empty bottle and leaned against the building. He pulled his phone from his pocket and pressed speed-dial #1.

“Hi, shnookums,” said d’Artagnan.

“I’m at Doctor Pope’s office,” he said. “I have some time to spare. Did you find anything at the neighbor’s house?”

“All her stuff’s still there,” said d’Artagnan, sounding a little muffled. “We looked in the windows and nothing’s gone. Her neighbors -- married couple, check out -- they said she left her cat with them, so they figure she’s coming back.”

“All right,” said Athos thoughtfully. “Porthos found a pattern in her visits to Graz. He can update you. We can pick up the trail tomorrow.”

“Mhm,” said d’Artagnan. He coughed a little, sending a burst of static through the phone.

“In the meantime, take some ibuprofen,” said Athos. “And lots of liquids.”

It wasn’t until Athos heard Aramis say, “Yeah, I bet he’d like to give him liquids,” that Athos realized he was on speaker.

Without missing a beat, Athos said, “Your innuendos need work, Aramis. That was weak.”

“Okay; I bet you’d like to make him swallow _your_ liqui-- hey!”

The sound of a tussle filtered through the phone.

“Stop talking about him like that!”

“He was my friend first, I can talk to him however I want!”

“Well, he’s my boyfriend!”

“Watch the hair, watch the -- ow --”

“Children, children,” Porthos called. There was a clatter as he picked up d’Artagnan’s phone. “You want to stay on for this?” he asked, booming in Athos’ ear.

Athos’ phone buzzed and lit up with the number for Doctor Pope’s receptionist. “I’ve got to go,” he said, not even trying to feign reluctance. “Tell d’Artagnan he has to drink another orange juice.”

“Yes, _mother_ ,” said Porthos.

Athos pocketed his phone again and shook his head. He’d bet a whole week of Porthos’ scratch cards that d’Artagnan wouldn’t even touch a single bottle.

 

* * * * *

 

D’Artagnan woke up to a pounding beat from somewhere inside the apartment. He groaned for it to stop.

Then he stopped groaning, as that only made the pounding noise worse.

Was that his head? Oh dear god, that _was_ his head.

D’Artagnan considered smothering himself in the thick comforter. He was already halfway there, as breathing out of his nose was becoming difficult. He tried to sniff and was caught off-guard by a sneeze that made his head ring like a gong.

When the dizziness passed and he could open his eyes again, he saw Athos standing by d’Artagnan’s side of the bed.

“Time to get up,” said Athos. His gravelly morning voice vibrated through d’Artagnan’s eardrums and pierced his brain. D’Artagnan buried himself in the covers again.

“ _Ugh_ ,” he said, with feeling.

Athos flipped the corner of the blanket back. The morning sun hit d’Artagnan’s eyes like a laser. “Feeling better?” Athos asked dryly.

“Leave be to die,” d’Artagnan mumbled into the pillow.

“I see you drank the orange juice I left for you yesterday,” said Athos sarcastically. He softened. “I got you some pills and water. Here, sit up.”

He gently guided d’Artagnan into an upright position. D’Artagnan leaned against him gratefully as he swallowed the pills.

Athos brushed d’Artagnan’s hair back from his forehead and kissed his temple softly. “You started sleep-talking about an hour ago.”

“Nggrh,” said d’Artagnan. He only talked in his sleep when he was sick.

Really, it wasn’t his fault that the new club was opening last night, or that the virgin appletinis had been so much tastier than Athos’ nasty orange juice. And it wasn’t his fault that Aramis had known the bartender and gotten them all extra rounds. And it certainly wasn’t his fault that his hardy d’Artagnan constitution had failed him so completely.

He waited for the inevitable lecture from Athos. His boyfriend must have understood how badly d’Artagnan felt, though, because he just helped d’Artagnan lie back down and covered him up again.

“Pills are on the bedside table. Take them every four hours,” he instructed. “Drink lots of water. The bin’s by the bed. Alright?” He smoothed a hand over d’Artagnan’s matted hair.

D’Artagnan closed his eyes in agreement and flipped the covers back over his face.

Athos padded out of the room, as quiet as a one-man brass band. There were a few clatters from the kitchen, the jangle of keys, and then the door shutting firmly and the deadbolt locking.

D’Artagnan sighed and let himself relax under the blankets. They were nice and heavy when his skin felt so thin and cold.

The sun was in his eyes, though. He kept thinking that he'd get up to lower the shades in a second... In just a minute…

 

* * * * *

 

Athos strode into the Musketeers Agency and slammed the door behind him. Porthos, who was just emerging from the mini-kitchen with an enormous mug of coffee, halted when he saw Athos’ face.

“D’Artagnan’s sick,” Athos announced. He crossed to his desk and jerked open his desk drawer. He tossed his car keys inside it with an angry metallic clatter.

“Uh oh,” Porthos muttered. Athos could feel them trading glances behind his back.

“Mother hen on the warpath?” Aramis suggested quietly.

Athos slammed the drawer shut and turned around. Aramis was seated at his desk, tipped back on his chair’s back legs. He surveyed Athos with what appeared to be a mild interest, and Athos knew he was covering up guilt. Athos had his number.

Porthos was hovering a few feet away from Aramis, obviously torn between advancing, for safety in numbers, or retreating to the kitchen.

“He has a fever and a cold,” Athos said, leveling them both with an accusing stare. “Funny that he stumbled in at half-past twelve, covered in glitter, when I told him to rest and drink liquids.”

He’d smelled the fruity drinks on d’Artagnan’s breath last night when d’Artagnan had skipped through the door on a temporary adrenaline high. Not alcoholic; d’Artagnan had stopped really drinking a few years ago when it was apparent to him how much sobriety meant for Athos. But he knew that the drinks had more than enough sugar (and probably a generous portion of glitter) to let Athos know exactly how d’Artagnan would feel in the morning.

“He was drinking liquids, though,” said Porthos helpfully. “He downed about six appletinis, you should’ve seen him go.” He trailed off as Athos turned the glare on him.

Aramis jumped in to help fish Porthos out of dangerous waters. “Come on, it was a bit of fun,” he said. “I hope you didn’t lecture at him, first thing in the morning.”

“He was sick enough that I spared him the lecture,” said Athos. “You two, on the other hand…” Athos took a restrained step forward. “Did you really think that bringing d’Artagnan to a club when he was sick was the brightest idea?”

“He’s an adult,” Aramis protested. “He can make his own decisions.”

“I believe it was you who told d’Artagnan to his face only last week that he had… what was it?”

Aramis pretended acute and sudden amnesia. Porthos took up the slack and recited, “The self-preservation of a lemming with bad eyesight and a flair for the dramatic.”

“Yes, he really does need to get his eyes checked,” said Athos, momentarily sidetracked. He snapped his gaze back to Porthos. “All the more reason to not bring him to a club while he had a cold.”

“Well,” said Porthos, his eyes shining, “they had a special: twinks drink for free.”

That was the absolute limit. “Who said d’Artagnan was a twink?” Athos hissed.

Athos’ chair clattered onto all four legs as he whipped his legs off his desk. “I’ve got to go, uh, clean out the fish tank,” he said abruptly.

“We don’t have a fish tank,” said Porthos. He was still looking at Athos, with his back to Aramis. Athos could see him pressing his lips together.

“I’ve got to go buy one, then,” said Aramis. He shuffled quickly to the door and made good his escape. Through the window Athos saw him running to his bicycle in a flat sprint.

As soon as the door shut behind Aramis, Porthos doubled over and roared with laughter. He guffawed until he had to wipe tears from his eyes.

Athos looked to the heavens and waited for him to finish.

Porthos braced his hands on his knees and peered up at Athos. “Y’done now?” he said.

“D’Artagnan isn’t a twink,” muttered Athos. He sighed. “Yes, I”m done.”

Porthos ducked his head again in another fit of chuckles. “Aramis ran like the dogs of hell were after him.”

“He’ll certainly feel like he’s in hell soon enough,” said Athos. “I told Constance to give him the paperwork for the Mellondorf case when Aramis stopped by.”

Porthos winced appreciatively. “Better him than me,” he said. He finally took the hint and moved aside so Athos could enter the kitchen area. He lounged against the doorway and watched Athos prepare his special dark roast with quick, efficient movements. “How’d you know it was Aramis’ idea to go out last night?”

“Who else would take d’Artagnan to a place where he gets ‘Vive Le Selfie’ scrawled on his back in blacklight paint?”

 

* * * * *

 

When d’Artagnan woke again, the sun had moved to illuminate the floor. He immediately missed the warmth. His skin goosebumped. Shivers wracked him. He nearly vibrated deeper into the blankets, folding in on himself in an effort to warm up.

He fumbled for the pills on the bedside table. He swallowed two dry. A miserable moan scraped out of his sore throat. He sniffed a few times and then gave up and pretended not to notice that he needed a tissue; the box was too far away and his limbs were shaking like the branches of a tree in a storm. He stared at the wall and hugged his knees to his chest, clenching his teeth.

D’Artagnan tried to focus on something else. What was Athos doing right now? Probably making fun of Aramis’ undoubtedly bedraggled, hungover state. Making loud sounds and watching Aramis flinch, then pretending innocence at his desk. D’Artagnan smiled at the image, then stopped quickly. Even his smiling muscles hurt.

Porthos was probably going over to the victim’s neighbor’s house. Maybe they’d get some headway with that case. Treville needed a break, and the agency could use the headline…

The spot of sun had slowly moved from the floor. It inched away from d'Artagnan, toward the window. The room felt colder with every bit of sunlight that vanished outside. D’Artagnan curled himself into an even tighter ball and tried to stop shivering. Maybe if he relaxed all his muscles... The resulting shakes almost drove his fist into his jaw. No. Definitely not.

He tried to drift away again. Treville was probably in his office, eating coffee grounds straight from the can. Constance would probably go in and scold him in a few minutes. Then she'd go out to the bullpen and scold some officers, and then round out her day by scolding Aramis when he inevitably stopped by the precinct to see Anne, the department’s legal aide.

Oh - d’Artagnan would have to cancel his movie date with Constance tonight. She would have to find someone else to take her to the new slasher flick. He'd get his phone and text her in a minute, when his hands and his everything else stopped shaking.

It was nice to have someone to see gore flicks with, since Athos hated them and d’Artagnan’s sister Marion was back home in Gascony. People didn't expect a woman who owned her own new-age crystal shop and gave palm readings to enjoy horror films, but Marion was probably the most bloodthirsty person d’Artagnan knew. Well, she was neck and neck with Constance.

Art shuddered out of fear and then shivered with fever. He silently vowed to never let those two meet.

Marion was probably doing a reading right now. She liked to do them in the morning; she said the sun was best then. D’Artagnan remembered her reading his palm when they were kids, in the loft of the horse barn while the horses shifted restlessly below. The sun would light the dust notes and the hay and Marion's golden hair, inherited from Mama.

She'd trace a finger along the lines on his hand and tell him about his future in a low, dreamy voice. Everything would seem slow and suspended, like Marion was casting a magic spell.

That spell would last until Marion added something she made up to tease d’Artagnan, and then they'd start pushing each other into the hay bales. Marion had once pushed d’Artagnan over the edge of the loft by accident. A horse had broken his fall. Otherwise he would've surely broken his neck. They had sworn a solemn pact never to tell their parents about it, since they knew they'd only get scolded and banned from the barn...

D’Artagnan jolted upright and scrambled for his phone, heedless of the shivers still shaking his body.

He knew how their victim had died.

 

* * * * *

 

Athos’ phone buzzed as Maria Guerre, the murder victim’s neighbor, put a glass of lemonade in front of him.

They had found her  fresh from the airport, unlocking her door, with her suitcases on her front porch. She’d had no choice but to offer them inside and sit them in her living room with glasses of lemonade.

Now Porthos was grilling her about her trips to Austria, with little effect. Maria kept repeating that she was there to visit family.

Athos slid his phone out and peeked at the screen. It was a text from d’Artagnan. He frowned at it.

 

 **From** : d’Artagnan

Horse debate TFT brave >

 

A crack in Maria’s voice made Athos look up. Porthos looked at him over her bowed head. Athos shook his head and Porthos returned his attention to Maria.

Athos’ phone buzzed again.

 

 **From** : d’Artagnan

Neck snares from bleak what

 

Athos caught Porthos’ eye again and jerked his head. Porthos nodded and returned his attention to Maria. Athos stood up and slipped out of the room. He found himself in the kitchen.

He dialed d’Artagnan.

“What’s wrong?” he said as soon as the phone stopped ringing.

Athos had to hold the phone away from his ear as d’Artagnan greeted him with a loud cough. D’Artagnan wheezed and managed to speak. “De porse,” he said.

Athos tried to decipher the alien language. “The purse?” he asked.

“Decorse,” said d’Artagnan forcefully. He coughed again. “De victim fell hoff a horse.”

“The victim…?”

“Fell off,” was all d’Artagnan got out before he sneezed directly into the phone. “Uuuuugh.”

“Have you taken the medicine?” Athos demanded. “Drink some of the water I left.”

“I cabn’t. I’b shaking too bad.”

“I don’t care if you spill it,” said Athos. “Take the pills and drink the whole glass. That’s an order.”

“You’re got the boss of be,” said d’Artagnan.

“No; I’m your coworker who doesn’t want to get sick,” said Athos. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Doh,” said d’Artagnan sulkily. He coughed loudly into Athos' ear, as if to spite him. 

Athos could hear the interview wrapping up in the living room. “And I care about your wellbeing,” he said. “Now go back to sleep.”

He thought he heard d’Artagnan say “Wait,” and he paused, but it was only a hacking cough. Athos hung up and rejoined Porthos.

Porthos waited until they were back in Athos’ car before asking, “Our boy doing alright?”

“He’s still got a fever and a cold, judging by the way he spoke.” Athos didn’t realize he was riding the bumper of the car in front of him until it honked. He honked back, louder. One of Athos’ criteria in buying cars was the ferocity of their horn, and this car had a horn that might have been fashioned after the war cries of Attila the Hun’s army.

“You should go check on him,” said Porthos. “I’ll work on the case solo ‘till you get back.”

Athos’ hands relaxed on the steering wheel involuntarily. “You’re sure?” he asked, glancing at Porthos. “Aramis won’t be back until mid-afternoon.”

Porthos scoffed. “Please. I think I can hold down the fort for a few hours. ‘Sides, it won’t be that different from how it used to be.”

“What, Aramis flirting with Anne and I skipping out during lunch?” At least Athos wasn’t leaving work to find the nearest bar, as he once had.

“Nah, I meant when you met d’Artagnan. Those were the days. Aramis flirting with Anne, and you completely useless. Head-over-heels, you were. Not a lick of help on cases. Moonin’ around, lookin’ at your phone all the time. It’s a wonder you ever tore your eyes off him long enough to find a cold body.”

Athos reflected that it was very lucky for Porthos that they had just entered heavy traffic, and Athos couldn’t reach over and hit him.

 

* * * * *

 

D’Artagnan fell back onto the bed with a groan of anguish. Athos had hung up on him. The nerve! Right when d’Artagnan was about to solve the case, too.

He fumbled with his phone, too tired to curse when it toppled from his hands and fell on the bed. He leaned over it, supporting himself on a trembling elbow, and found Aramis’ name in his messages. He typed a quick text and sent it, barely able to finish before he had to lay down again.

His phone buzzed and he peered at the screen.

 

 **To** : Aramis

The bu el or a Jose hat eho h broke I kick

 

 **From** : Aramis

?????

 

D’Artagnan groaned and pressed his forehead into the mattress. It was no good. He’d have to wait until his hands stopped shaking to try again. And he couldn’t call Athos until his throat declogged.

D’Artagnan heaved himself up and staggered to the bathroom. The tile was uncomfortably cold under his feet, sending shivers all the way up his body and prickling his scalp. He grabbed a box of pharmacy-brand sinus relief pills and hurried back to bed.

D’Artagnan mentally groaned as he swallowed the pills. Next time, he vowed, he would drink whatever hellish orange juice Athos gave him, if it kept him from feeling like this again.

As long as it didn’t have pulp.

 

* * * * *

 

By the time Athos dropped Porthos off and drove back home, nearly an hour had passed. He had thought about calling d’Artagnan back, but he hadn’t wanted to disturb his rest.

Unless something had happened and d’Artagnan couldn’t call for help.

Athos made a conscious effort to relax his fingers from around the steering wheel and shifted into a higher gear.

He entered their apartment quietly and made sure to close the door slowly. The apartment was unlit and quiet in that way that houses are in the middle of the day when you’re not supposed to be there.

He found d’Artagnan sprawled in the middle of the bed, covers flung off. Athos breathed a sigh of relief; a return to d’Artagnan’s usual method of sleep must be a good sign. The water glass on the bedside table was empty, and the pill bottle had its lid askew. A sleeve of sinus and cold medicine pills also lay on the table, its foil cover peeled back in patches. So d’Artagnan had been well enough to go to the bathroom to fetch those. Good.

Athos laid a hand on d’Artagnan’s forehead to test his temperature. His skin was damp, but not clammy. His fever was probably just breaking.

D’Artagnan stirred. Athos drew his hand back, intending to let him sleep, but d’Artagnan cracked his eyes open and rolled over to look at Athos.

“How are you feeling?” Athos asked softly. He sat on the edge of the bed.

D’Artagnan sighed deeply; the sigh of a happily drugged convalescent. He cleared his throat a few times before saying, “Better.”

“Good.” Athos cupped d’Artagnan’s cheek. A flush highlighted his cheeks, but otherwise his sickly color of that morning was gone. “You look better.”

D’Artagnan closed his eyes happily and covered Athos’ hand with his own. “I dreamed about you,” he said sleepily.

“Yeah?”

“M-hm. You were shouting at Aramis.”

Athos chuckled and rubbed his thumb over d’Artagnan’s temple. “You must have been having an out-of-body experience.”

D’Artagnan opened his eyes. “Hmm?”

Athos resigned himself to small words. “I did yell at Aramis today.”

“Oh, good.” D’Artagnan yawned and turned on his side, curling himself around Athos. He mumbled, “Deserves it.”

“I think part of the blame can be apportioned to your own low self-control,” said Athos.

“Wha?”

“Wasn’t it your choice to go to the club?”

“Yeah, but it was twinks drinks for free.”

Athos frowned. “You’re not a twink.”

“Athos,” said d’Artagnan gravely. “Have you _seen_ me in a mesh top?”

Athos sighed. “You really are a lemming. With a flair for the dramatic.” He bent and kissed d'Artagnan's forehead. "But you're my lemming." 

D’Artagnan nodded and closed his eyes again. “Okay.”

“We’ll have to talk about it when your head is clearer.” said Athos. “But for now,” he stood up and d’Artagnan clung to him, “I’m going to make you some soup.”

D’Artagnan hung onto Athos’ arm. “No, wait!” The urgency in his voice made Athos pause. “I have to tell you something.”

“What is it?” Athos sat back down.

“The… victim.” D’Artagnan rolled onto his side again and curled even tighter around Athos, trapping him in place with his limbs. “Fell off a horse.”

Athos paused with his hand above d’Artagnan’s head. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” D’Artagnan pushed his head up, a silent demand for hair-petting, and Athos obeyed. D’Artagnan squeezed his eyes shut like a cat. “‘S how his neck got all weird. Mama made us all look at pictures b’fore she let us ride.”

A few thoughts ran through Athos’ head at top speed.

One was that d’Artagnan had once told him that he started riding horses at age seven, and he spared a moment of grief for the fact that he would never meet the woman who had shown the d’Artagnan children pictures of nearly-headless horsemen as a safety lesson.

The other and more pressing thought was that the victim’s neighbor, Maria Guerre, had mentioned visiting her late husband’s horses among her reasons for visiting Austria.

Athos closed his eyes and recreated Maria’s home inside his head. Horseshoe over the doorway; black-and-white photographs of Austrian horses in mid-run over the mantlepiece. A ribbon on the kitchen fridge from a show at a local Parisian horse stable.

A flier on the kitchen table for a silent protest outside the stables, demanding the return of ownership from the corporation that had just bought the place.

Athos had a feeling that if they looked into the company, they would find that it was the same one the victim had donated to yearly. And he very much thought that Maria’s phone records would reveal a message inviting the victim to the stables for one last argument. He would have been more likely to indulge his neighbor than an anonymous protester.

Maria could have coaxed him up on a horse, and left him unprepared to land safely when things got rough. Accident or not, Maria was responsible.

Athos gave d’Artagnan’s hair an extra nice pet and gently squeezed the base of his neck. “I think you just solved our case.”

D’Artagnan wiggled. “I know I did. You wouldn’t listen to me.” He opened one eye enough to glare at Athos. “I called and you hung up on me. And I was _sick_ ,” he added with indignation.

Athos bent to kiss his forehead. “I’m sorry, love. I’ll make it up to you, alright?” He tugged his hands away and began to strip off his jacket.

D’Artagnan’s hands rubbed absently against Athos’ thigh. “Now?” he asked. “I don’t know if I can do a lot.”

Athos delicately removed d’Artagnan’s hands. “Not that.” He took his phone from his jacket and tossed the jacket on a chair. He texted Porthos and Aramis about d’Artagnan’s revelation. At the end, he added, _Not coming back in. See you tomorrow_. He texted Constance too and cancelled her movie night with d’Artagnan.

The phone was turned to silent and put on the bedside table. His trousers followed his jacket.

“Budge over,” he told d’Artagnan, who wiggled himself into the middle of the bed. Athos lifted the blankets and slid under. He held out an arm to d’Artagnan, who immediately curled back into Athos’ body: one leg over Athos’ waist; one hand clutching Athos’ shirt at the shoulder and the other flattened against Athos’ side; his head on Athos’ chest; and his hair, inevitably, in Athos’ mouth.

Soon his fever would break and he would sprawl out in his deep-sleep pose like usual, one leg hanging off the other edge and his head just barely on Athos’ bicep. Soon Athos would wake to pin and needles in his arm, and would shift until he spooned d’Artagnan, holding him close.

Later they would wake to a darkening apartment, and they would lie entwined in the twilight stillness together, sleep-hazed and content. Athos would send d’Artagnan to shower while he stripped the bed and heated up soup. D’Artagnan would eat it all, because he felt guilty about the orange juice, while Athos would make a note to schedule an eye appointment for d’Artagnan and get distracted by the thought of d’Artagnan in glasses.

They would share fond, comfortable glances across the table until d’Artagnan left his chair and climbed into Athos’ lap. They would trade lazy kisses until Athos’ neck twinged.

D’Artagnan would call him an old man and lead him to the bedroom, and Athos would complain about having sex on the bare bed, so d’Artagnan would push him against the wall and get him off there, pinning Athos to the wall and biting his neck as Athos held him up on his fever-weak legs.

Then they would stagger to the bed on legs made newly weak from orgasm, and Athos would be left to clean them up and fetch new bed linens while d’Artagnan wolf-whistled at Athos’ naked body from his exhausted sprawl on the floor.

But all that would come later.

For now, Athos held d’Artagnan tighter and let himself drift into sleep.

 

* * * * *

 

Athos groaned as he came fully awake and the pounding in his head got louder.

He could hear d’Artagnan moving around in the bathroom. The clink of his toothbrush in the sink resounded like cannon fire in Athos’ ears.

Athos tried to speak and immediately regretted it.

Footsteps rang out on the floor and d’Artagnan came to a stop by Athos’ side of the bed. Cool fingers stroked Athos’ face.

“Hey,” said d’Artagnan softly. Athos cracked his eyes open.

D’Artagnan held up a bottle. "Sorry about the fever," he said. "I got you some orange juice?" 

**Author's Note:**

> "Well, young man," said he, "we appear to pass rather gay nights! Seven o’clock in the morning! PESTE! You seem to reverse ordinary customs, and come home at the hour when other people are going out." 
> 
> -The Three Musketeers


End file.
